


Arrival

by Fossarian



Category: Smallville
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-12
Updated: 2019-01-12
Packaged: 2019-10-08 23:40:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17395922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fossarian/pseuds/Fossarian
Summary: Clark shows up at Lex's house late one night.





	Arrival

Life’s funny for Clark. He’s only seventeen and it’s taken him from the cornfields of Smallville to the outer reaches of space and then all the way back again. It’s taken him here, to the Luthor Mansion. To Lex. 

This place is almost like a second home to him. His _escape_ from home. As guilty as that thought makes him feel, it’s the truth. He can come here almost anytime. 

Lex always has a pithy remark ready about jocks to make Clark smile and feel better about his own lack of athletic grace. Lex never seems annoyed with him, or tells him he’s being too reckless for wanting to do perfectly normal things like try out for the football team or have a social life. 

He can come here now, at a quarter to midnight. He can wake Lex up out of what looked to be a sound sleep _(Clark hadn’t given much thought to Lex’s sleep attire but now it seems obvious he’d wear something warm, something soft)_ and Lex does nothing more than give him a mildly surprised “Clark…” and step aside to allow him through the door. 

“I’m sorry,” Clark gasps. 

He steps inside, his boots squeaking on the clean floor, rain water dripping down his face. He’s suddenly aware of his own mussiness, as he usually is when standing next to Lex, who no matter the hour seems completely put-together and tidy. Even now. Even shirtless. 

Clark hadn’t been expecting this. His image of Lex is always one of complete order, swathed in some variance of black and layers to insufficiently cover the fact that he’s got a flat stomach and muscular arms. 

_It's all that fencing,_ Clark thinks distractedly, feeling unhinged. 

Given that he’d chosen to walk through a storm in the middle of the night, it was probably natural for Lex’s heightening level of concern, reflected plainly in his eyes as he stared at Clark. 

Clark wonders if he looks as melodramatic as he feels. Like some distraught heroine out of a Harlequin romance novel. 

“Are you okay?” Lex says. 

He lifts his hand as if to touch Clark, but he doesn’t. Of course he doesn’t. It is only to lead Clark to his couch. Lex doesn’t really _do_ touching. 

Sometimes he will stand very close Clark, so close Clark can smell his cologne and the Old Spice soap he likes to use in the shower. But that’s all, that’s as far as it ever goes. Usually it happens when Lex is trying to make him understand a point that Clark doesn’t understand - or pretends he doesn’t - and Clark feels like it should make him uncomfortable, like maybe he should take a step back and not want Lex to stand so close to him. 

But the problem is - he does. 

He does want Lex to stand that close to him. He wants him to do that, and other things. It’s the _other things_ that made him pace his room for the last fortnight, sick and excited with this newfound revelation. He’d hoped it would go away. He’s still young, right? Maybe all guys have fantasies about their best friend’s hands when they hold a glass of bourbon.

Lex has long fingers, strangely elegant for a man, and sometimes Clark will watch them as they move, as they drum on a table, as they hold a pen, or curl into a fist so that Lex can rest his cheek on them. 

He likes to do that last particularly when listening to Clark ramble on about his problems. He’ll tip his head against his hand and watch Clark with that serious expression on his face as Clark complains about how nobody at school likes him, and while we're on the subject, what do you think it means when a girl says “it’s fine” and what's the point of taking AP Bio when you’re a mutant freak that can’t even get a date from someone who actually likes you so what does college or a sensible future matter, really. 

Of course, he doesn’t say it like that. He can’t let Lex know his secret because… because his parents don’t like the Luthors. Because they don’t understand Lex. Not the way Clark does. 

“I’m okay,” Clark says. “I’m sorry, I just - I couldn’t sleep.” It’s basically the truth. 

Lex has him sit down on the couch and Clark is aware that he is ruining expensive leather with his wet denim, but Lex doesn’t seem to care. 

“It’s okay,” Lex says. “I’m just glad you’re all right.” 

He doesn’t look entirely convinced as his eyes travel over Clark, but he doesn’t press the issue. He sits down on the coffee table across from Clark, his knee brushing Clark’s knee, and leans forward. He always looks at Clark like he’s so… so _interesting_ , like everything Clark does is worth noting down and filing away. 

It’s flattering. Clark would be lying if he said it wasn’t. But it’s also based on assumptions that Clark knows he is not worthy of from Lex. 

After a moment of speculative silence, Lex seems to decide to change tact and says in a deceptively casual voice, “Do you want something to drink? Water?” He gestures to the shelf where a decanter sits. “Something stronger?” 

Clark normally says no when Lex offers him alcohol but this time he just nods and goes back to staring at his shoes. But not before catching Lex’s gently raised eyebrows. 

“Really?” Lex says as he stands up. “I had given up asking. Corrupting today’s youth has lost its charm after my defeat with you.” 

“If you don’t want to give me some, I can just have a Coke,” Clark says hurriedly. 

Lex gives a gentle snort. “You’re being ridiculous.” 

Lex walks over to the shelf and Clark watches him go. Lex’s pajama pants are black, as is most of his wardrobe, but these are made of silk. They form over every curve of Lex’s body and Clark can clearly see the firm shape of his ass in them as he walks. Usually it’s covered by Lex’s many long coats. 

Clark lets his eyes travel from the broad line of Lex’s shoulders to the tapering of his waist, pausing at the shadowed dip in the middle of his back, where his pale skin disappears into the lining of silk. Lex is barefoot, a vulnerability that strikes an odd, discordant note in Clark’s otherwise powerful image of Lex. 

A glass filled with dark liquid appears in front of Clark’s face. He looks up at Lex, who is smirking down at him although his eyes haven’t entirely lost their concern. Clark feels a stab of guilt.

It’s not like Lex doesn’t have bigger things to worry about than babysitting Clark every time he has some new drama. 

“Thank you,” Clark says, taking the glass. 

“No problem.” 

Lex returns to his coffee table seat, holding his own glass. “I did put some Coke in it,” he says. “You don’t look like a take-it-straight man.” 

Clark's laugh is genuine and slightly hysterical. “I think you’re right,” he chokes out. 

He catches Lex’s fading smile and that stab of guilt hits harder. _Pull yourself together, damn it!_ He lifts the glass to his lips and downs the contents in one go. 

Lex says nothing to this, just watches him. Clark feels the rum and Coke slide down his throat, but it’s not as bad as he’d thought it would be, it’s actually not bad at all, and after a moment the heat pooling in his stomach begins filtering out to the rest of his limbs. Clark had not actually been sure he even _could_ get drunk. Gratified to find that he can, he glances meekly back at Lex through wet bangs. 

“Can I have another?” 

For a few seconds Lex doesn't move. Clark can see the wheels turning in his mind. After another beat he says, “Sure.” 

As Clark knew he would. Lex never tells him no. 

Clark tries not to look at Lex’s ass this time, he really does, but the drink didn’t do much for his self-restraint. He hopes this warm feeling lasts, that he gets drunk for real and he forgets why it’s so important to be here when there’s a storm outside and he’s lonely. 

Lex comes back and hands him the glass, and this time their fingers touch. Clark is going to apologize again, or tell Lex he loves him, he’s not sure which, but Lex cuts him off with a “I’m gonna get you a towel and some dry clothes” and disappears on him. He’s gone for a long time. So long that Clark ends up helping himself to the decanter and gets halfway through it before Lex returns. 

He doesn’t feel drunk, just warm. Safe. But maybe that’s just because Lex is back, holding in his arms a fluffy folded towel and some clothes. Lex’s own clothes? Probably not, Clark realizes in disappointment. They are not the same size. 

Another disappointment. Lex has put on a shirt. 

“Here, dry off,” Lex says. 

He squats down in front of Clark and hands him the heated towel. The warmth seeps into Clark’s chilled fingers. He’s not going to catch anything by walking in the rain. He could tell Lex that. Would Lex stop bringing him dryer-warmed towels, would he stop looking at Clark in _that_ way? 

Something tells Clark no. 

“Take your clothes off. Do you want to stay here tonight?” Lex says, still looking up at him. 

There’s nothing remotely implicated in Lex’s tone. It’s the emotional detachment of a doctor. But the words scuttle across the dirty floor of Clark’s brain and he almost blurts it all out right then and there. _Yes, I’ll stay. Please kiss me._

“Yes,” he says. He looks down at the decanter clasped between his knees. “I drank your stuff. Is it expensive?” 

“No, it’s cheap stuff,” Lex says, a patent lie, and doesn’t even look at the glass as Clark hands it to him. He sets it on the table, his eyes focused entirely on Clark’s face. 

“Are you sure you don’t want to tell me anything?” he says. 

Clark is quite sure. He takes the dry clothes from Lex’s hand. “I’m okay, I promise. I was just thinking too much. You know me.” 

He starts peeling the wet henley from his back. “Sometimes I think I do,” he hears Lex say. “And then you surprise me.” 

Clark finishes pulling his shirt over his head and sees Lex is no longer looking at him but at the floor, his eyes distant. “Oh well,” Clark mutters, “everyone says that about me.” 

“Yes, I’m sure they do.” 

Clark fumbles with his belt and stands up so he can pull his jeans down. Lex doesn’t move away, even though his mouth is perilously close to Clark’s groin at this level. Then he looks up. And Clark momentarily forgets what he’s supposed to be doing as black panic swamps him. _Oh God, he knows._

But, like ripples in a pond, that knowing, or whatever it was Clark saw, is there and then gone. Lex is so good at hiding what he really thinks and feels that Clark sometimes wonders if even Lex knows. 

“You don’t mind if I sleep over?” Clark says. 

One corner of Lex’s mouth quirks up. “Of course I don’t mind. You know I’d do anything for you.” 

It’s meant to be flippant. But the words lodge somewhere in Clark and won’t unstick. He strips to his boxers and quickly dresses in the dry clothes. They’re a perfect fit. 

“How come you got clothes that fit me?” Clark says, plucking at the flannel pajama bottoms. “Did you know this would happen?” 

Whatever “this” is. There’s a thread of paranoia in his voice that he hopes Lex misses. 

“We keep extra clothing and toiletries on hand for unexpected guests,” Lex says with a negligent shrug. “There’s whole rooms in this place stocked with everything you can imagine. You wouldn’t have to leave for months.” 

“Oh,” Clark says, strangely let down. “Sounds nice.” 

“Just being proactive.” 

It’s one of those weird things Lex throws out that always makes Clark grateful he had Jonathan Kent as a father and not Lionel. 

“You’re a good guy, Lex,” Clark says, suddenly overcome with a wave of affection for his friend. 

Lex stares at him, surprised, and then throws it off with a head shake. “I think you’re drunk.” As if to emphasize his point, he picks up the decanter Clark had set on the floor. He whisks the empty glass away too, and Clark’s wet clothes are gathered up. 

From this vantage point, Clark can watch the silken flex of muscles as Lex bends down. 

Maybe he is a little off-kilter, but it’s not because of the drinking. Clark reaches out and touches the nape of Lex’s neck. His fingers are warm now so he doesn’t feel too bad about it. 

Lex goes very still, the way he does when Lionel blusters in unannounced or Clark’s dad gives him one of those helpful reminders about how sinful and disgusting the Luthors are. When he glances up at Clark there’s a question in his eyes and Clark is angry at himself, sick with his own perversions. Lex doesn’t like him like _that_ and he definitely isn’t going to be so tolerant of Clark’s impromptu night visits if Clark can’t keep his hands to himself. 

Clark’s still trying to think of some way to salvage this when Lex rescues them both for him. 

He gives a light laugh - it’s his social laugh, the one Clark’s heard him use at parties to flatter someone he wants something from or diffuse a potentially awkward situation - and Clark wants to die on the spot. Lex takes his hand and removes it from the back of his neck. Clark half-expects him to fling it away like a dirty sock but he holds it in his own two hands and looks back up at Clark, all assurance returned. 

“I think you’re a little drunk,” he says again, more confident this time. “Why don’t you go to bed? You can tell me what happened in the morning if you want. Or not at all,” he adds, generously. 

Clark stuffs down the urge to stomp his foot like a frustrated toddler. That’s not what this is! He can already feel most of the alcohol dissolving in his system. Whatever buzz he had left disappeared with Lex’s removal of his hand and glacier smile. 

“You should be all good and warm now,” Lex says and he rubs his own two hands over Clark’s fingers, creating friction. It feels so nice. Lex’s touches, however brief or unintentional, always fascinate Clark, and this one is no different. In either way. 

Abruptly he lets go of Clark’s hand and stands up and even Clark can’t tear down the wall Lex places in front of them. Clark’s wet clothes, which had fallen loose in his grip, are regathered into his arms like a shield and he steps away. 

“I’ll have these cleaned for you and they’ll be ready in the morning,” he tells Clark and then disappears again. Clark half-expects him to not come back. 

Truly lost now, Clark sits on the couch with his head in his hands. Stupid, stupid! Why did he always have to make things weird? 

At the touch on his shoulder, he jumps and turns around. Lex holds up his hand, placating. “Hey, hey,” he says softly. “Just relax.” 

His voice has a soothing quality to it that never fails to calm Clark down. This time is no different, despite Clark’s efforts to maintain maximum levels of self-loathing. Lex doesn’t seem to hate him yet. 

Well, the night is still young. 

“Maybe I should go to bed,” Clark says, defeated. Why had he even come here tonight? All he had done was interrupt Lex from more important endeavors and upset him. Wasn’t that what he always did? 

He hadn’t really thought ahead of time. All he had known, in his barn loft, was that he wanted to be near Lex. Things just seemed better here, less dire. Lex had a way of making everything seem like it was under control. Even Clark. 

“We can talk if you want,” Lex offers. Then pauses, his mask slipping so that some uncertainty bleeds through. “You seem upset. Did I do something?”

And Clark really feels awful now. Because _no_ , Lex has done nothing wrong and now Clark’s made him feel as though he has. 

“No, it’s not you,” Clark says. “It’s me. I’m -” _A freak. Gross._ God, wasn’t being an alien enough? He had to tack on this difference now too? 

Lex watches him closely and nods as though anything Clark had just said made sense. “Well... I’m glad to hear it.” 

Clark stares at him in misery. “I think I’ll just lay down.” 

“That’s a good idea,” Lex says and it sounds like a rebuke. “You want to sleep in the guest room?” 

No, he doesn’t. But he’s imposed himself enough on Lex, he can’t ask him for anything else. He can’t ask for… that. "Yeah, okay." He trails after Lex as Lex turns smoothly on his heel and leads him to the guest quarters. He stares at Lex's bare feet. He wants to protect Lex from him, but he's too selfish to stay away. 

Lex flicks on a light, illuminating the huge guest room and bed. To Clark, it looks bleak and cold, even though he knows Lex keeps the entire castle at a comfortable 70 degrees. He can't stop himself from forcing Lex to linger a few seconds longer. Sitting down on the bed, Clark says, "Can I have that water now?"

"Of course," Lex says, the consummate host. “Whatever you want."

If only that were true.


End file.
